


It Would Be Murder

by YellowCrayon



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, M/M, can be interpreted romantically or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowCrayon/pseuds/YellowCrayon
Summary: “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” Dorian cried. “It would be murder!”--In which Basil actually stabs the portrait upon its completion.





	It Would Be Murder

Nothing mattered anymore. Not when the rest of his life flashed before his very eyes.

Dorian couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare, to look on wordlessly. The portrait in front of him brought him nothing but despair.

How it mocked him.

He would lose his beauty. He would lose his youthful appearance, his inner happiness. His everything. Dorian felt a deep pain in his heart, for he would never be the same person he was on this lovely summer day.

“This is your doing, Harry,” said Basil, bitterly.

Dorian looked straight at him. “Oh, quit it Basil. Besides, Harry is perfectly right. No matter what you might say, I wouldn’t take my words back for anything in the world.” Just moments before, Dorian had said something that made Basil shiver:

_If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!_

Dorian turned around and flung himself onto the couch, golden curls bouncing as his head landed on the pillow.

Basil made a point to stare at Harry. “You should have gone away when I asked you,” he muttered.

“I stayed when you asked me,” was Lord Henry’s answer.

Anger rose in Basil’s chest, but he chose not to say anything. Instead, he stood in front of the portrait, scowling at what he had once thought to be his greatest masterpiece—if not a masterpiece, then at the very least a reflection of his love for Dorian. He crossed his arms and put one hand to his chin. Thoughts swirled in Basil’s mind. _I should say something to settle this conflict_. But he didn’t. There was another solution.

He turned around to face his painting table, fingers moving through his litter of supplies until he found what he was looking for. He selected a long palette-knife, thin with a blade of steel. What was this portrait but canvas and color? Upon its completion Basil had hoped for Dorian to see his love reflected there. Instead, it served as a physical reminder of something neither of them could ever have. Basil turned back to face the portrait. Looking at it one more time, he became quickly unsettled by the thing he once thought so beautiful. He stared into the eyes he had painted and they stared back at him, peering into his very being. They clung to his thoughts, his soul, whispering cruel things that could only come from a rotted heart. _This isn’t Dorian_ , thought Basil. He would not let it be.

Quickly and suddenly he raised the knife, ready to strike. There was nothing grandiose in the action. There was nothing of magnificence or extravagance, like the hero who brandishes his noble sword. Rather, Basil was fueled by a personal longing to see the Dorian he once knew. He saw him change before his very eyes, and in destroying the portrait sought to change him back.

As the knife went down, Dorian looked up and locked eyes with Basil.

Dorian let out a sudden, piercing scream, both hands clutching his chest. His heart skipping a beat, Henry jerked his head around to see Dorian fall off of the couch, who was now writhing on the floor in agony. He furrowed his brows and quickly made his way over to where Dorian was. Once he saw what had happened, his features softened and his eyes widened in shock. Blood dripped onto the carpet.

Basil’s hand shook, and he let go of the knife that was embedded into the canvas. Only, there was no knife. It had disappeared. “Dorian? _Dorian_?” He rushed to Dorian’s side and crouched down, grabbing him by the shoulders. Something about the portrait. Something about it had caused this terrible accident.

Dorian continued to cry out, and Basil could only look at him in horror. Embedded into his chest was Basil’s knife.

As if ignoring the wound, Dorian’s heart, strong and pure and not yet wholly tainted, continued to beat. His heart had decided it was not time to die. It pumped and it pumped until all the blood that Dorian had slowly spilled out, staining his cream-colored shirt with a deep crimson.

In looking at Dorian, Basil’s own heart cried out.

Dorian took several raggedy breaths. “Basil… please…” With his hand he weakly reached up to touch Basil’s lips, leaving them stained with blood. He leaned his head onto the floor and closed his eyes, shakily breathing in and out.

Basil pleaded pathetically. “Please don’t leave me, Dorian. Please.” A tear had fallen down Basil’s cheek, then another, and then they came all at once in a steady stream. Pressing his palms to the floor with force, Basil began to cry.

Dorian slowly opened his eyes to look at Basil one last time. They never closed again.

With trembling hands Basil reached out to grab the knife embedded into Dorian’s chest. He barely stopped himself, knowing that removing it would only make matters worse. It didn’t matter, though. Dorian was dead.

“I killed him,” he said softly. He shivered, and all he could do was shake his head. “I killed him.” He put a hand to his forehead and slowly knelt onto the ground. “Dorian…” Basil’s sobbing prevented him from saying anymore.

Henry looked up. He was obviously shaken, but nonetheless spoke matter-of-factly: “Basil, we’re going to have to hide the body. He was killed by your knife. They’re going to think that _you_ did it.”

“And what of it! I did, in fact, kill Dorian by my own hand. This is entirely my fault—I’m the reason this argument happened, _I_ stabbed the portrait. Let everyone see the dead body. I don’t care.”

“Oh, please. By that logic I had to do with his death as much as you did.”

Basil said nothing. He made no sign that he was ready to move from where he knelt.

Henry crouched down next to Basil and put a hand on his shoulder. Although he feigned indifference, his eyes were red, and he spoke with a stuffy voice. “Basil. The body. They’re going to find it here.”

“Harry,” Basil said with unusual force. “Leave me alone.”

Henry gazed on in sadness. He stayed in the same position for a few moments then, finally standing up, walked over to where the portrait was. _Someone_ would have to clean up this mess, wouldn’t they?

He looked around on Basil’s painting table, trying to find a rag to somewhat clean up the blood. He did not find one. Turning to face the portrait, he noticed something very peculiar indeed.

The portrait was exactly as it had been a few minutes ago. Not a tear, not even a scratch. It was as if, in stabbing it, Basil had killed Dorian’s very soul.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay...so I WAS going to write this as having had Dorian survive, but everyone on tumblr told me to kill him off so. There's that. If I feel up to it I might include an alternate ending.


End file.
